I did it for you

You know the scene in old war movies where one guy falls on a grenade to save the rest?  It's always a dramatic moment.  The whole unit is in a foxhole and this guy -  usually a comic or conflicted character -- maybe the whiner, or the guy with the Italian or Polish accent, or the guy who doesn't get it -- he sees the grenade first, and jumps on it just as it goes off.  And all his faults are redeemed in that one moment of self-sacrifice.



That's who I'm feeling like right now.  I am taking one for the team. 

This is about rising real estate prices.  We're all in this war together, like our movie unit.  We're asking the same questions.  If we're renters, when will we afford a place of our own?  If we're homeowners, should we upgrade now, or sell and rent for a while? Will our kids ever be able to buy a place?  The market is overdue for a correction, but when is it going to happen? How long can we hold off?  It's a grenade, I tell you, a housing grenade.  And it's landed right in our foxhole.

Good news!  You can let out the deep breath you've been holding.  I just bought a place.  I did it for you.  Now, thanks to my decision, you know when the market correction is due to hit -- within six months at most.  That's how long it took the last time I made a real estate decision.  And the time before that.

I do not have a chequered past in real estate.  I have a uniformly grim past, a sad past, a past full of wrong decisions.  Over a number of decades during which housing prices have risen umpty-ump percent, I have lost, well, umpty umps of money.  Not possible?  Oh yes it is.  I buy high.  I sell low.  I do it consistently.  You could say I have bad luck. Or bad advice. Or you could say I'm just bad at real estate.

My expression as I signed the Agreement Of Purchase And Sale this morning was the same expression as that Italian-Polish whiny smart ass in the movie, when he jumps on the grenade.  Think Sidney Carton, only without the lost love. Tis a far far better thing I do ....

joker's regret

I am not a regular overeater but it happens.  I do, on occasion, have a What was I thinking? moment halfway through a second helping of ribs or fifth shortbread cookie.  I have regretted menu choices even before they arrived at the table, even as the words leave my mouth.  Tower of onions rings?  Duck confit poutine?  What am I thinking?

But you can regret other bad habits.  More than once in my life -- more than twice, hell, more than a hundred times -- I have regretted the easy joke.  It's there in front of me, a quick laugh, and I find myself unable to resist.  I speak without thinking (actually, this is my regular style, even when not telling jokes) and then - after I have cast the words out and cannot reel them back in -- only then do I realize that I might have stepped on some toes.  Maybe, just maybe, someone could feel bad about my gag.  And I feel bad.  Joker's regret.

I remember  a few years ago standing on stage in front of a couple of hundred high-school kids. I choked on my coffee and, without thinking (enough), blurted, Well that certainly did not go down in a fun way.  There was a pause, then one sputter, then a few more.  Then a general laugh.  I tried to save the situation by looking puzzled and segueing to the Titanic (which certainly went down in a not-fun way) but I don't think the teachers were fooled.  It wasn't the anger I minded -- it was the sighing.

If I had the moment to live over, I probably wouldn't have made the joke.

Anyway, I may have hit another iceberg tonight.  Facebook notified me that a friend had commented positively on a book club featuring indigenous Canadian writers. I jumped in without thinking - a quick and easy joke, not even particularly funny -- something about this was all very well but where were the book clubs that featured aging straight white guys?  A gag along those lines.  As I say, not brilliant, but political correctness is a big fat target, hard to resist.  That's not the point.  I have joker's regret because I might have made a friend feel bad.

Now, it would be hilarious if the community collectively kicked me.  A hundred thumbs down on my post.  De-Friended all over the place.  Expressions like the girl in the picture up there.  Again, though, it wouldn't be the objective anger that got to me. I'm used to disapproval. Anyone who feels that there is only one way to approach a topic - any topic - is just wrong.  But if my friends feel bad, I will too.

Probably there will be no Facebook-shaming.  My friends will roll their eyes.  The community will ignore me, or sigh and pat me on the head.  I'm used to that too.

Will the moment of joker's regret stop me from speaking without thinking ever again?  I'd like to believe that. I'd also like to believe I'll never again order duck confit poutine.  But, you know, I just might...

JUDGE NOT, DAMMIT

The coolest cities, to my mind, are the ones that care least about the little rules, that bend convention to so everyone can get along. That's what cities are, after all -- vital experiments in mutual tolerance. 

Take traffic lights. This picture is of Manhattan, where the idea is to pretty much ignore lights along with all other signs, which suits the pace of the place and is strangely sensible, given pedestrian volume.  The idea of 50 people waiting on a corner for a single light to change so they can cross a near-empty street makes no sense, given that 50 more people are going to arrive every few seconds.

In Vancouver, on the other hand, the idea seems to be that rules are rules.  Lights are there FOR A REASON and you cross against them AT YOUR PERIL.  Not that you'll get run down -- drivers are mostly polite and attentive -- but you will be JUDGED by fellow pedestrians.  I have received dozens of outraged sniffs and head tosses from Vancouverites who stood next to empty streets waiting for the light the tell them to cross, while I walked towards them against the light. There'd be a large red J on my forehead if they had their way.

Maybe I'm doing them a disservice.  Maybe they want to jaywalk but lack courage -- like Chuchundra the muskrat in "Rikki Tikki Tavi," who longs to run out into the center of the room but can't bring himself to do it.  But they don't look scared.  Mostly they look accusatory.

Like the blonde lady with the baby carriage.  This was last week.  She stood opposite the Dufferin Mall, frowning at me as I ran towards her.

"The light's red!" she hissed. 
Dufferin can be busy so I'd waited for a break in traffic before hustling across the four lanes.
"Sure is," I said.
Then I got it. She was judging me for jaywalking.  This is not a usual attitude here. Toronto is mostly full of folks trying to get from A to B as fast as possible.
She looked into the stroller in front of her, then back to me.  Big dark eyes in a well made-up pretty face.  One of those zippy moms.
"But -- the children!" she said. As if this invoking of our most precious resource would make me break down and promise to sin no more. "If they see you crossing illegally, they'll get the wrong idea.  I don't want my --"  she said her baby's name here but I confess I've forgotten it "-- to cross against a light someday and get run over."
 
I should have laughed and moved on.  But I had a fast reply, and the words were on my tongue before I thought them through (and if I had a nickel for every time that's happened...).

"What do you think is more likely to hurt your baby in the long run?" I said. "Me jaywalking or you smoking cigarettes?"

Yeah.  I know.  I walked off, feeling not at all like a hero.  Now I was a judge too.  And, you know, I didn't like it. 

rare day in the life

So it's official.  For the first time in I don't know how long my in basket is empty.  After an eternity of struggle, catching up to demand of editors, students, teacher librarians, I am looking at a blank screen.

I am reminded of the moments when my young children were all in good places.  There was usually someone in some kind of need.  But not always.  Every now and then I would look up in the middle of my day, run through the list, and realize that all four of them were okay. Healthy and happy, up-to-date in terms of shots, cavities, homework, haircuts, clothes, and birthday presents. (Yes, I know.  No one was starving or drowning, abused or at war.  No one had cancer.  These are healthy first-worlder concerns. I was and am aware of the little-league aspect of my worry life.) 

I remember feeling - for those few hours - off the parental hook. As I do now, workwise. 

How long will this state last?  Not very.  There's manuscripts due back any day now, students to ment, and Christmas is coming.  So I must make a point of enjoying it.

Hallelujah.

Lucky Jonah

Blogging is like exercise. I know I should get to it -- but there's always something more pressing, or fun, or ... anyway, here we are again.  Puff puff, pant.

Summer was long - amn't I right?  Long and hot, least it seemed so to me in my un-airconditioned apartment.  I had a couple of mss hovering over my desk for most of it.  The one I'll talk about now was a substantive edit that was really more of a re-write. 

I decided to tweak the hero's issue.  In this draft, Jonah (that's his name) would have a growing awareness of his gayness.  I'm always keen to write from a point of view I know and don't know.  I like to surprise myself when I write.

Being gay has never been a big deal to me.  My best friend at uni was gay.  I've spent my adult life in the restaurant business and in publishing. I am totally used to gay company.  But I wonder how I'd feel if I was gay myself?  That's what I wanted to write about -- the growing realization that there was this fundamental area of yourself that was, well, different.

I didn't have much trouble with the rewrite.  You have to find a piece of yourself to put into a character and give it conviction.  Jonah is a loser with a sense of humour, and things happen to him in the course of the story that are, well, hilarious. Jonah spends a fair amount of time thinking, Holy crap, now what do I do?  This is very much like me. 

But was gay Jonah credible? That was my fear.  I've shared time and space and intimacy with gay men and women, but I'm straight. And I grew up a generation ago.  My best gay friends are old or dead.  Being gay is still a struggle but it's easier now -- at least in the urban secular 1st world.  I needed someone young and gay to vet the story.

So I did what any parent would do.  I asked my kids for help.  Thea put me in touch with one of her best friends (whom I remember as a cute 6 year old).  Mack is still pretty cute but he's now 20-something, towering over me, formidably well read. He let me buy him a beer and said he'd read the ms and offer comment.

Good news!  He likes Jonah and the story.  Bad news! A couple scenes are really wrong. 

I just don't see why you've got him running away from the best friend, Mack told me, over the phone.  He's got a thing for the guy, he's got a chance to kiss him, and he runs away.

But Jonah's a girl now, I said.  (Lucky Jonah is nothing like the Bible.  I don't know why uploaded the picture except it made me smile.  In my story there's a magic camera that turns you into people, and Jonah has become the best friend's girlfriend.)

Girl, boy, so what? said Mack.  You get a chance to smooch your hottie best friend, you go for it.

Would you? I asked.

In a heartbeat.

So I got a chance to write my first sort-of gay sex scene.  It looks hetero, but the girl is really a guy.  (Wow, maybe I am venturing into transgender territory.)  Anyway it is a middle-school novel. The sex is pretty tame.  The only toys involved are from Mattel and Lego.

That was last month.  Now summer is over and the book is off at the publisher's, ready for the line edit and copy edit and ARC and second ARC and - finally -  maybe - with luck - the Indigo / Amazon warehouses, and the indie bookstores, and classrooms.  Keep your eyes open for Lucky Jonah.

Hey, anyone going to be at the Telling Tales Festival?  I'll be there, tagging along with a stellar line up.  It's in Westfield heritage Village, Rockton Ontario on the 20th - a cool time guaranteed.  Heres the website:  

http://www.tellingtales.org/


 Ok, I feel fitter now. See you next time I feel the need to exercise.

can't see the forest for the trees...

The last months of the school year went through me like green corn.  Travelling all over Ontario (well, southern Ontario) thanks to the Forest Of Reading.  There were festivals in Thunder Bay, London, Toronto, Mississauga, and Oshawa, and I was there for each one, smiling, nodding, signing books, and making speeches and presentations.  That picture was taken in Peel, I think. You can't see me but I'm there in the front row.  Did I have fun?  Yes.  Would I do it again?  Totally.  Next month?  Well, maybe I'd wait a bit.

A Forest Of Reading nom does more for book sales than just about anything else in Canadian kid lit.  So many schools are on board, so many librarians order your book ...  it's like a Scholastic Book Fair times 500 schools, and you actually make some money. I'm pleased that the selection committee liked Zomboy enough to include it this year. 

You don't have to win the award -- the winner doesn't make any money or sell many more copies.  Simply being on the short list is a victory.  Which is just as well.

Winning any award is a bit of a crap shoot.  The right judges, the right timing, the right book.  People's choice awards are an even purer crap shoot because the judges are regular folks instead of professionals.  Denominators are lower, emotions are higher.

What kind of authors win readers' choice awards?  Cool ones.  Young ones.  Judges like to vote for people like themselves - which makes sense.  But more important than who you are is what you write.  Most kid authors are neither young nor cool, and some of them win.

So, what kind of stories win?  The tear-jerker about a tough kid making her way against the odds is a good bet - especially if her dog or sister dies.  The action-packed adventure might win, if the world is in jeopardy and our protagonist has a cool weapon.  Adventure and sentiment rule. 

Man, I wish I could write that kind of story.  But you have to believe and care about what you write, and I, well, I can't care about that stuff.  I don't mind reading it, but every time I imagine writing about a dog (or sister) gazing at me with liquid eyes as they breathe their last, I start to giggle.

Want to know what doesn't win, no matter how the dice roll?  I'll tell you.  What won't win is a story about zombies that is really a riff on racism and school bussing, where the overall tone is funny quirky and the ending is left kind of vague.  Don't write one of those.


Sadly, I did, and so I was not the winner of the Red Maple Award this year.  I didn't win in Thunder Bay.  Then I didn't win in London.  Then I didn't win in Toronto, Peel, Oshawa.  The picture up there does not show me winning.  It might have been one of the times Eric won (adventure, cool weapon) or Rona (dead children).  I spent the end of the school year not winning the award.

Sigh.  I got used to it.

Am I glad to have been on the short list?  Yes.  Would I do it again?  You bet. Will I write an easier-to-like book for next time?   I'll try, but I haven't written one of those yet.  Don't bet on me.

Snow Day!

Free day!  I was supposed to drive to Montreal to visit Ed who goes to school there, but scheduling and illness dropped from a great height and the cancelled the trip.  So I have - get this - NOTHING required of me today or tomorrow.

Ahhhh.  This is stolen time, time away from the world.  Fire from heaven.

Don't get me wrong -- I miss Ed immensely, would LOVE to see him.  And what with editing two books and writing a third, juggling irate editors like chainsaws, I have TONS of stuff to do.

How odd, then, that my response would not be regret at missing my son or grateful and diligent application to my legitimate tasks. No, I want straight to the kid place:  Snow day!  Woo hoo!

I wonder if this is a human thing or a Scrimger thing?  I remember way way back, slaving away on a project due the day after tomorrow, worrying like hell because I wasn't likely to finish in time, and when the deadline got extended by a week, my first action was to go to a movie.

Do prime ministers respond this way to unexpected gifts of time?  Do tycoons or saints or scientists?  Or is it only us irresponsible artist-kid types?

I'm not entirely stupid -- I know that time is never GIVEN but only loaned at interest.  There'll always be more stuff to do, and even less time to do it.  But I can't help my feeling of relief right now.

I should phone Ed (actually that'll be fun) and get back to my book.  I know I should.  But maybe I'll put on another pot of coffee and savour my freedom for another few minutes.